Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

A swarm of gnats flew past the window, forming odd patterns with their tiny bodies. A chill crept down her spine, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was the breeze or her augury. Beyond the passing swarm, she thought she spied two golden orbs in the distance. Eyes. She squinted, making out the silhouette of a wolf against the fading twilight, its form almost indistinguishable from the shadows and trees around it.

She furrowed her brow. Wolves didn’t live in this bay, did they? She hadn’t heard a single howl. Removing her glasses, she wiped them on her sleeve and replaced them.

The wolf was gone, leaving her wondering if it had been a premonition or a shifting shadow, and with no means to be certain of either.

The next morning, Hulda carefully worked about the splintered kitchen and made breakfast. She had it set on the table before the two men roused. When Mr. Fernsby toed into the dining room, as though fearful it might eat him up, he paused. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

Hulda folded her arms. “I am able to cook, Mr. Fernsby, but it is not in my job description. Considering the night you had, I thought it would be appropriate to provide sustenance in the form of legumes and pease porridge.”

Mr. Fernsby’s lips quirked.

That made her eye twitch. “Pray tell what is so humorous.”

“Sustenance,” he repeated, pulling out a chair as Mr. Portendorfer came up behind him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Larkin,” Mr. Portendorfer said. “I was in such a rush last night I didn’t eat dinner, and this smells delicious.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Mr. Portendorfer offered grace, and the two gentlemen ate. Hulda couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated when Mr. Fernsby’s eyebrows rose. “This is good. Are you sure you don’t want to be my chef?”

“Quite,” she quipped.

Mr. Fernsby paused. “Are you not eating?”

“I already had my fill, thank you. It’s not appropriate for staff to dine with the family.”

Merritt shrugged. “Hardly any family here.”

“The rule still stands, Mr. Fernsby.”

He swallowed another bite before saying, “Please call me Merritt.”

“I prefer formal designations.”

Smirking, Mr. Portendorfer said, “You best do as she says. This one is serious. Don’t let her walk out on you. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Gift horse? I’m paying for her.”

“BIKER pays for me, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda corrected. “You will be supplying salary for the chef and maid you hire.”

“BIKER?” Mr. Portendorfer repeated.

“That Bostonian place I mentioned,” said Mr. Fernsby.

Hulda departed to let the men eat, using her dowsing rods in the reception hall and the lavatory in the meantime. She hadn’t put any wards in the living room or adjoining sunroom, and dark shadows roiled within, as though the house were having a tirrivee at having been forced into order. When Hulda approached the doorway, her dowsing rods parted, but that was to be expected, as magic was condensed in this part of the house. If she couldn’t find the magical source in the warded rooms, she’d start moving the wards around to better search.

When she returned to the dining room, she caught the men midconversation.

“—is doing real well. Real well,” Mr. Portendorfer was saying as Hulda slipped in and gathered dinner dishes. “Think she’ll be getting married soon.”

“Married?” Mr. Fernsby leaned forward. “Isn’t she, what, fifteen?”

Mr. Portendorfer laughed. “Serious, Merritt? She’s twenty-three!”

Mr. Fernsby whistled, as he was wont to do. “Twenty-three. In my head, she’s forever twelve.”

“For a man who’s based his life on collecting facts, you sure lose the easy ones.” Mr. Portendorfer glanced Hulda’s way. “Did you know this man once got himself hired by the Reese Brothers’ Steel Company just so he could write an accurate story on their illegal business practices?”

Hulda rested her hand on the doorframe. “I was not aware.”

Mr. Portendorfer clapped his hands. “Four months you worked there, wasn’t it?”

“Only three. It was miserable.”

“Your arms sure got big, though.”

Hulda interrupted, “I intend to make another list for groceries this afternoon, Mr. Fernsby. We’re in need of meat, if you have a preference.”

Mr. Fernsby breathed out slowly—it seemed to be a motion of relief. “Any kind is fine, as long as it’s reasonably priced. Thank you.”

She nodded. “And do you have a preference of spirits?”

He smiled then, but it didn’t fit the rest of his expression. “I, uh, don’t. That is, no need to stock them on my account.”

“Still dry?” asked Mr. Portendorfer.

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “I avoid things that might get me into trouble.”

The soberness of the statement caught Hulda’s attention; it could also be seen in Mr. Portendorfer’s expression. As though the friends shared a secret they did not dare utter between these enchanted walls.

And however etiquette was being stretched, it was not yet broken enough for Hulda to ask.